the enso

"Yearning" by marlowe

the poem

1.
When the fog lifts, the world
is just as it was. Our lives are
plotted in grids and circles,
yet we continue to unwind
a ball of yarn into a straight line
which we then bend to our will.
Yes, blood is easily spilled, like wine
splashing from the glasses of careless drinkers
entranced by their revelry. The intention
we manifest as we walk our chosen path
is the moon that governs us, commanding
whether the tide ebbs or surges.

2.
See? The squirrel’s tail
is like a feather duster
but the tail of a skunk is a flag
that should not be ignored.
You tell me that to make something whole
sometimes it must be broken first.
This orange rind twists like a double helix.
Our kitchen curtains are veils that thinly separate
our constructions. Letters and numbers,
compiled into words and phrases, are doorways,
and not all that sparkles is fool’s gold.

3.
You wrap your fingers around your mug
like the tentacles of an octopus.
An owl’s hoot cleaves the darkness
while our two dogs curl asleep: yin and yang.

4.
Remember how each lemon was a sun?
The red dwarf maple tree was a torch,
the hay bales were thimbles in the fields,
and the weave of the basket
looked like a raspberry.
Now we watch a flock of seagulls flutter
on the wind like confetti.
Driving home, we are flanked
by dried crops of cotton, awkward bundles
of copper wire lined in stiff rows.
Yet the hibiscus opens like radar dish.

the enso

"The Depths" by marlowe

the poem

I imagine you sit
at the bottom of the pond,
resurfacing like a ghost,
like an old memory,
only after
some provocation, your mouth
gaping in disbelief
at your fortune, this
disturbance
in your muddy microcosm
that prompts
exploration,
requires further inquiry
that perhaps sparks
an instinct you
didn’t know you had,
the lily pad
becoming
your marker, your trigger
next time someone
walks too close
or dares to perch by the bank,
looking for something you
cannot give.